


Popular wisdom can go to the Sith

by Gabriel4Sam



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dominant Mon Mothma, F/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Mon Mothma, Omega Obi-Wan Kenobi, Omega Verse, Omega don't need Alpha, Pegging, Sex Toys, Submissive Obi-Wan Kenobi, Switch Obi-Wan Kenobi, Swith Mon Mothma, omega/omega pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22160245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabriel4Sam/pseuds/Gabriel4Sam
Summary: An Omega needs an Alpha, popular wisdom says. Mon Mothma and Obi-Wan disagree.I had started that one for SubObi week, but even if Obi-Wan is feeling quite submissive in it, he's more switching role in this universe, so I didn't post it for the week.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Mon Mothma
Comments: 2
Kudos: 53





	Popular wisdom can go to the Sith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wrennette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/gifts).



> Thank you Wrennette, for helping me select pairings for the week, even I didn't do every day.

An Omega needs an Alpha, popular wisdom says.

As often in this sort of case, nobody consulted the Omega about their opinion on this particular wisdom.

Thanks to the Force, the Republic is, more or less, in an enlightened era. Nobody thinks anymore Omega needs to stay home, pregnant and barefoot. And people who still believe it understand the public reaction to this sort of dark era ideas, and shut up about it. Regularly, too regularly, Judicials break up sentient trafficking ring, and Omega makes up eighty per cent of the victims, but of course, even the most unpleasant politicians affirm in public their horror of such things.

No matters what people affirm, to pass as modern, a lot of them still believe an Omega should be paired with an Alpha.

Mon Mothma knows she will never, ever, be Chancellor, one of her dreams. She knows every reelection will be a trial far more exhausting than it should, no matters how good she does as her home planet’s senator. She hears the rumours, she smells the jealousy of some Alpha, their entitlement, when they think they should have her job, and Mon herself at their feet, and her lover kneeling next to her, looking in adoration at the sacrosanct virility of Alpha. And don’t start them on the, less scandalous but still abnormal in their eyes, choice of a Jedi, a warrior monk who should be a puppet of the Senate, a dog of war of the Republic, and not a stubborn, Force-following Omega, who never meet a rule he didn’t want to break, no matters his perfect manners.

It’s worth it.

It’s worth it, for love.

Today, as every other day. Because when most Alpha take heat as something to conquer, a fellow Omega knows a heat is something to endure, and that pained shared is half-passed. Mon’s junior senator colleague has her codes and her orders to vote in Mon’s place for the next three days. The Rotunda will have to do without her for that time. And those days, Mon has every intention to use them to ease Obi-Wan through his heat in the most pleasurable way possible, as he does for her every time her turn comes.

Obi-Wan is already nonverbal. It always come quicker for him than her, every Omega lives heat in their own way after all. He moans, as she joins him on the bed again, and he turns his head in refusal when she presents him with the cup of sugary water, but she insists. She knows that sensation, when everything but the burning need between the legs is unimportant, but even if Obi-Wan can’t understand it right now, coming down is much easier without the dehydration. Finally he drinks, and she pushes until he had taken everything in the cup.

“Good, very good,” she praises, her voice low, and he preens, his eyes vague, but his scent sharper. The peak is near, soon he will need to be tied again. Mon leans down and kisses him, hungry, dominating, different from everything they share on a normal day, pillaging his mouth like a conquering warlord. But this is what he needs right now, and contrary to what Alpha like to believe, an Omega in the throes of a heat doesn’t need an Alpha. They need to be worked hard, and tied, and to do it again, until their body is tricked in believing everything possible has been done to ensure conception. And modern medicines, and modern sex-toys have rendered that much easier.

She pinches his nipples, hard, and he groans, an animal noise. His voice is wrecked, but nothing warm blue milk infused with bacta and honey won’t be capable to handle, later. For now, she pinches him again, and follows it with two nipple clamps. Personally, her breasts are way too sensitive during heats, but it almost make Obi-Wan go wild. It works as always, his hips snaps, his legs fall more open, the scent of slick more present.

“Roll over,” she orders, and he obeys immediately, bowing on the mattress, presenting in the most classical pose, trying to entice his lover by the curve of his ass, pushing back. She slaps his rear, once, twice, thrice, as hard as she can, and he comes with a yell, without further touch.

“Very good, perfect, good boy,” she approves warmly, making sure to enunciate clearly. The words are probably lost in translation for him, but the tone is important. He’s so beautiful like that, lost and trusting and entirely given to pleasure.

He’s beautiful and he’s hers, as she is his, and only duty is more important. Obi-Wan chooses the Force long ago and she chooses public service pretty much as long ago, and one day, perhaps it will become incompatible with their love, but duty, duty only could take them from each other arms, and their gender, their designation, people’s opinion…That counts for nothing.

She adjusts her harness tighter. Her cock is curved, and ribbed as he prefers, and also bright pink. Mon loves pink, and she refuses to let cliché about that colour stop her from enjoying it.

For later, she also have an inflating knot, to tie Obi-Wan, and she puts it on the mattress next to her right knee, to seize and use when he will have been fucked enough to take it.

Obi-Wan whines, a wordless plea, his cheek against the bed, his slick maculating his thighs and his ass. She opens his ass cheeks, with a hand, guides her cock with the other. He opens beautifully around the toy, slick and relaxed and ready. Another pleading sound.

“I’m here,” Mon swears, “I’m here, beloved,” and with a sharp movement of her hips, she buries the toy in him to the root. Obi-Wan goes limp under her, and she puts a kiss on a freckled shoulder.

“I’m here,” she repeats, as she starts to move, and even in his lost condition, a smile forms on his lips.


End file.
